


The Cur of Blaviken

by disgracefullee (DisgracefulLee)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Marilka - Freeform, The Butcher of Blaviken, anyways this is me projecting, geralt - Freeform, i really love the theory where she's jaskier's mom, marilka is such a cool underutilized character!!
Language: Esperanto
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28220928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisgracefulLee/pseuds/disgracefullee
Summary: Marilka does get out of Blaviken, eventually.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	The Cur of Blaviken

She does make it out of Blaviken in the end.

Marilka travels a lot now. She’s in a band of merchants, people peddling their wares. She hunts for them, sells the pelts of the animals she takes down when they reach towns with markets. She’s proficient with a bow, now- less proficient with the sword. It reminds her of things she’d rather forget. So she sets out poison for the rats that get in their stores and when the cat ends up eating it, Marilka sells his pelt as “sable” lining on a magnificent coat. She moves on before anyone asks any questions.

The years have fallen lightly on her. She’s twenty-six, now- it’s not much, but she’s changed from the desperate sixteen year old she’d been during the Butchering. Marilka can’t bring herself to regret her choices, when drink forces her to think on them. She couldn’t have done anything to protect Geralt, of course. The idea that anyone would have listened to her is ludicrous. She’s always been practical- knew that if she’d done anything, she’d have been stoned along with the Witcher. Too much hurt staining the streets.

But Stregobor… well, she’d been working on him for a while. If she showed him that she was on the mage’s side- she didn’t know what would happen. But maybe something. Maybe Stregobor would take her with him when he left. Nothing could come of protecting the Witcher.

So she’d kicked Geralt while he was down. Told him to leave Blaviken, to never come back. 

She’s not a hero.

It’s his eyes she remembers most. She tells herself it’s because that yellow gaze was focused directly on her for maybe the first time in their brief acquaintance, but deep down she knows that it’s because he’d looked heartbroken. But who was little Marilka to break the Witcher’s heart? If anything, that was on him.

It had all been a wash, anyways- for all her desperate reaching, Stregobor had moved on out of Master Irion’s tower less than a week after Renfri’s death, leaving Marilka stranded in a Blaviken much worse for wear. And she was nothing again.

She teaches herself how to shoot after finding an old bow in the attic. The string should have been unusable, but when she plucks it, it springs back into place. Marilka doesn’t question it. She’s learned not to look gift horses in the mouth.

Eventually her father tries to have her married to a wealthy merchant. He succeeds, in the end, but Marilka has the last laugh. Her husband gets killed on a trip through Sodden, set upon by a special kind of monster- the human kind. She sees the blessing for what it is, though- before her father can claim her or her jewels, she leaves, fleeing through the night.

She sells all of it in the next town, trading it for what silver she could carry and dumping the rest in the hollow of an old tree. If she was desperate, she’d be back, but Marilka knows she won’t be. She had her bow.

She joins a group of merchants. They tell her they don’t want her at first, until she takes down the lone wolf hunting them from the thicket. After that- well, after that, she hunts for them, and when the tanner dies over an argument in a pub she takes over his job.

The hunting is her favorite part of it. The people she’s with- well, the people are fine, but they don’t make her blood sing the way the hunt does. She’s still a bit angry with Geralt, even after everything, so when a Graveir decides the village she’s currently in sounds like lunch, Marilka decides to take care of it herself.

“They’ve already sent for a Witcher,” her crew told her as she melted down some coins to coat her arrowheads in. “There’s no need to be hasty over one village. Let’s just leave, Marilka.”

“You can go,” said Marilka. “I won’t stop you.”

“But why even do this?” The silk merchant pressed, brushing the sweat of the easily distressed off his face. He wants to be a poet, someday, but his rhymes are shit. “What are these people to you?”

“It’s not about the people,” says Marilka, “I’m just good at putting down dogs.” She walks out before they can say another word.

She’s not a hero.

She almost dies that night. Her bravery leaks out of her bones at the sight of the beast, but it’s too late to turn back. She’s too stubborn to flee. When it pauses after it’s broken Marilka’s leg, she manages to shoot it through the eye, felling it with her silver arrow. Then she passes out.

Eventually she wakes up. Marilka sets her leg, desperately trying not to scream. She knows that the woods are listening, now. She hacks at the gravier’s head with her hunting knife, severing it after what feels like hours of work, and drags it over to her horse. 

When she reaches the inn, she topples over, hitting the ground with a squelch. Her last thought before she loses consciousness is that she’s very tired of the fainting.

“They’re calling you the Cur,” says the silk merchant when she wakes up. “Feral, savage. Say you ripped the graveir’s head off with your teeth, then ate the rest.”

“It was delicious,” Marilka says, then, “Fuck!” as she tries to move her injured leg. It’s hot and swollen, she can tell under the wrapping. Probably infected. 

The silk merchant moves forward, holds her hand. His palms are sweaty. “You can’t move like that. Not for a while.” 

She rips her hand away. “No,” she tells him firmly, and he nods.

“Just thought I’d try,” he explains, and she laughs.

“Right after I’ve been through a harrowing experience? When I’m emotionally distressed? Get out,” she says, “And bring me some paper and a pen.”

The silk merchant does as she says and leaves her. When she’s finished writing, she maneuvers herself towards the staff leaning against the wall and pushes herself up. She hobbles down to the bar.

“Can you hold a letter for me?”

“Who’s it for?”

Marilka smiles.

“The Butcher of Blaviken.”

.  
.  
.

_Geralt,_

_Try to keep up._

_Marilka._

.  
.  
.

She’s not a hero, but the Cur of Blaviken is going to leave her mark on this world.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at @uppercase-disgrace and on youtube as @lee x


End file.
